


Loyalty

by lemone



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-11-06
Updated: 2010-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemone/pseuds/lemone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU starting during Dethsources.  What if Melmord’s appearance had been something other than chance?  Where, in the end, do Charles’s loyalties lie?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyalty

“You are needed elsewhere. The means have been arranged. You will be contacted again after the transfer.”

The voice was deep, sinister. The message itself was less than ten seconds long, yet even that was enough to make Charles’s throat go dry, his teeth on edge in expectation. He had been well trained by that voice. 

And yet.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, wasn’t it?

~~~****~~~

A few hours later, Melmord burst through the door with the single most shit-eating smirk Charles had ever seen in his natural existence. The boys shuffled in behind him. None of them had the decency to meet his eye when Melmord announced that ‘they’ had decided there needed to be a change around here. Of course. It had been easy when he was weaving a shiny little fairy tale about how fun it was going to be without that boring robot that you couldn’t even trust, but it was a different story when you were looking at the man who had been working his goddamned fingers to the bone for the last ten years now, wasn’t it?

A bitter pill, indeed.

He knew this had to be the means the call spoke of. He tried to take comfort in that, tried to tell himself it was all part of a greater plan. That it was his fault for feeling so attached to them when he knew where his loyalties lay. It would be better, he told himself, now that he wasn’t going to be belittled and ignored at every turn. He might even get to see his Master again, after all these years.

It didn’t do much good.

A sleek black limousine that Charles did not order pulled up in front of Mordhaus. Ah, so he was going to be driven to …wherever he was expected to go now. He had been planning to drive himself to his second home and spend the evening with a bottle of scotch and watch Klokateers carry the last ten years of his life into his house in sorry-looking cardboard boxes. Ah, well. He’d feel better with something to do. 

The only companionship that the limousine held was its cream-colored upholstery, a mini fridge with a modest array of top-shelf alcohol, and a manila folder that briefed him on what he assumed were contacts for the near future. Nothing about what was required of him, why he was ‘needed elsewhere.’ 

He wondered who else at Mordhaus was working for _him_ and how he or she had managed to pull the correct strings to make this happen. Then again, maybe he had taken the boys’… capricious nature into account when it was decided Charles’s services were needed elsewhere.

The limousine pulled up to his second house. His needlessly large, empty house. So he’d be spending the evening with a bottle of scotch after all.

~~~****~~~

Nathan awoke with a pounding headache and the telltale heavy lump in his gut that meant he was going to throw up. Like, right now. Whether he wanted to or not. Quick as he could, he untangled himself from his sheets and rushed to the bathroom before he had to deal with that nasty-ass puke smell being in his room all day.

A half hour later he staggered back into his room with some hair of the dog and tripped over something, falling face first into the carpet and spilling his beer. Ow, fuckin-

A look around revealed that some asshole had decided to go pawing through his closet and slung all of the shit inside across his bedroom floor. Who the fuck even did shit like that? Did one of last night’s groupies go lookin’ for shit to sell for coke or somethin’? Still bitching to himself over his stubbed toe, bruised knee, and spilled beer, he kicked all of the shit into a pile in front of the closet. A Klokateer would come by and take care of the rest later. 

Nathan sat on the edge of his bed for a while, drinking his new, non-spilled beer. Something sitting on his nightstand caught his eye. He went over to get a closer look and found that it was a picture. Holy shit, he remembered taking this thing! Where the fuck did it come from? Had it gotten drug out of the closet last night, somehow? 

It had been their first album under the Crystal Mountain label and they’d thrown a big ass party for the occasion. Nathan had been in bands before, but never one that had been part of a big-name label with radio play and tapes for sell across the fuckin’ country and everything. Nathan figured he ought to have pictures to remember the occasion by, and bought a nice Polaroid camera with a bunch of refills for the purpose. He’d lost most of them before the night was out, but this one had managed to survive all these years. 

It was of Ofdensen leaning against the railing of the balcony, by himself, tie gone off somewhere to fuckdom, first few buttons undone, revealing just the tiniest bit of collarbone. He’d must have stepped out of the smoke-sweat stink of the party for some air. He held a half-glass of maybe-scotch in his hands and the corners of his mouth were turned up in a fuckin’ once in a blue moon smile. 

Nathan had snapped it quick and run off to a nearby deserted set of stairs to shake it until the picture became clear. He inspect his prize. After a minute or two Pickles came up and sat down beside him. 

“What ya gaht dere?” 

Nathan flipped the picture so that Pickles could see it better. Pickles looked at it, real quiet, lookin’ like he was chewing on something even though he wasn’t, for a long time. 

“You, err, ain’t thinkin’ of doin’ somet’in stupid dere, Nat’an?”

Nathan turned towards Pickles and scooted away from him, just enough to where he could get some forward momentum. Pickles might beat on shit for a living, but Nathan was like, twice the guy’s size, and if he could just get in a good, solid tackle and knock the breath out of him then he could whale on him bad enough that Pickles wouldn’t argue when Nathan told people they had been fighting over a chick-

Pickles held his hands up in a defensive gesture. “Whoa, whoa, dere, dude. I didn’t mean it like that, just-“

Nathan stood up, giving Pickles the best glare he could muster, trying to intimidate him into silence. Maybe he should still go through with the ‘tackle and beat the shit out of’ idea, even if Pickles didn’t look like he was going to call him a fag and try to kick his ass. 

Pickles stood up too, lowering his voice in case anyone else decided to show up. “It’s just- It’s just that you can’t keep an effin’ secret to save yer life! Yer last name’s _Explosion_ , fer chris’sakes! An’ you know how Murderface is…”

Oh fuck no. There was no way he was going to listen to this. Nathan shoved Pickles, slamming him against the wall. “Shut the fuck up! All I did was take a fuckin’ picture, same as I have a hundred fuckin’ times tonight.” He grabbed Pickles by the collar of his shirt and lifted him off of the ground. Nathan leaned in close and personal, hissing as he continued. “And for your fuckin’ information, Mr. Goddamn Busybody Dildo, I know I’m _stupid_ , but I’m not so motherfuckin’ stupid that I’d shit where I eat. Got it?” 

“Ah’ right, gahd! Jest don’ go all ‘roid rage on me no more.”

Nathan dropped Pickles, who landed on his ass. Nathan scooped up the picture, stowed it in his back pocket, and stormed away without another word.

Looking at it now, after so many years, Nathan figured that nobody would have anything to say if he went and said ‘bye to the guy, would they? A quick handshake, a no hard feelings, maybe a call me sometime? 

With this idea in mind he put on a shirt and a clean enough pair of pants and headed towards Ofdensen’s office. He’d be there, like he always was, maybe taking care of some paperwork so that shit would be all taken care of when Melmord-

Nathan opened the door to find the place completely empty. Cleared out of everything but carpet, walls, and window. Nathan opened the door to what he always thought was a closet or something to find a big, equally empty space that must have been Ofdensen’s bedroom. 

Gone. Already gone. Probably before they had even left for the bar last night. Maybe there were hard feelings, after all. Maybe Ofdensen had been waiting for some asshole to palm his shitty, thankless job off on for years. 

Maybe he didn’t want them anymore. 

Nathan did the only thing he felt he could do. He stomped out, slamming the door behind him. 

He needed a drink. 

~~~****~~~

Three days passed. Three tortuously long, ghastly days. Charles had gotten used to constant stress and activity, with little sleep and less free time. After that, the waiting felt like a kind of death. 

As he watched the sun set on the second day, he started to crack. Maybe he wasn’t needed after all. Maybe _he_ didn’t want him anymore, either. Maybe this was his was his way of getting rid of Charles. They didn’t need his information anymore and so they didn’t need him. Somehow, somewhere, he had done something wrong. Not done enough. And now he was paying the price, sentenced to rot alone in a multi-million dollar mausoleum. 

He had a very bad time of it that night. He spent it alone in his office, watching the moon trace its path across the night sky. He abandoned his scotch sometime after midnight. He was tired of drinking. He thought about reading to pass the time, but it was no use. He spent hours in the library, staring stupidly at thousands of books he had bought but never opened. The titles were meaningless to him. It didn’t matter, in any case. Without his Master, his life held no purpose. He tried to remember what it was, where he had failed. It had to be something. He wished dearly that he knew what. 

By the time the sun began to stain the eastern sky he had fallen into a thin, fitful sleep, still sitting in his office chair. If only he could be given a second chance, he would prove himself worthy. He would find a way to make up for his failure. He was sure of it. If only he had a second chance…

~~~****~~~

He had his first visitor in the early evening of the fourth day. Another black limo, or perhaps the same one that had driven him away from Mordhaus, pulled up the front drive. A lone man with long, flowing white hair stepped out. Charles had often heard the other men back at the base refer to him as Mr. Selatcia, but Charles had been taught to only think of the man as his Master. 

Charles gripped the back of his chair convulsively. As he heard the front door open an icy terror gripped his heart. Charles had served the man for over thirty years and he had never forgotten to fear him. He would follow at the man’s heels to the bowels of hell and back, but he would never forget his place. 

He realized what a mess he was and cursed himself. He should have trusted his Master more, prepared for his arrival even if he didn’t know when it was coming. Fumbling, he ran a comb through his hair and tried to make himself vaguely presentable. He wasn’t even sure when he had last showered or shaved. When he was sitting alone in the deathly silence of his house it didn’t seem like anything worrying about, but now all he could think of was what a pathetic, filthy vagrant he must look like. 

The door opened slowly. His Master stood before him, identical to the day they had parted ways over ten years ago. Charles fought to maintain composure. His Master had seen the value of him as a soldier, and by God that was what he was going to see when he walked through that door. Charles wasn’t going to disappoint him, not now.

His Master raised one strong, elegant hand and beckoned him over. Charles;s feet caught on the carpet, and he staggered in his haste to get closer. His Master smirked icily at his foolishness, but thankfully didn’t laugh. 

“Come with me.” 

Charles was led into the bedroom as if his Master were the one who owned the house and he were the visitor. He supposed he was, in a way. 

Charles felt the back of his throat go dry and coppery as his Master cupped his chin. His hands, balled into impotent fists, trembled at his side. His breath hitched into a gasp as the grip tightened painfully. His Master swooped down, claiming his lips in a crushing kiss.

Charles felt his muscles relax. It was easier, now that the waiting was over and the time to serve had come. Charles had always found a kind of serenity in surrendering to his Master. He had done it so many times and for so long that there was comfort in the act. He knew his place, what was expected of him.

Slowly, with practiced ease, Charles sank to his knees. He placed his palms on the carpet, and bowed his head as his Master undressed. After a moment, his Master bent forward, threaded his fingers through Charles’s hair, and used that to position his mouth where it needed to be. Charles, having served for so long a verbal command was no longer necessary, set to work dutifully. Desperate to show that he had not forgotten his place after all these years, he threw himself into the task. He raised his hands from the carpet in a silent plea to be allowed to use those as well, but his Master caught them deftly and held him by the wrists. A soft sigh escaped Charles’s lips. No matter. The taste, the texture between his lips was enough to satisfy. He had been rotting alone in his second house for what felt like an age, but in serving his Master he was finally home. 

After a time the hands that gripped his wrists lifted up and Charles’s feet struggled to find purchase beneath him. His Master’s hands worked with practiced, calm ease as they deftly undid his shirt buttons. A nervous excitement fluttered low in Charles’s stomach. He felt his heart hammer in his chest, no different than it had when Master had undressed him in the same fashion over thirty years ago. Charles stared at his Master’s broad chest has he worked. He didn’t dare look at his Master’s eyes. There was always a dark, supernatural intensity there at times like these that instilled terror in Charles’s heart. It had been enough to make him want to flee their first time together, but his Master, in his wisdom, had caught and held him. 

Strong, firm hands glided across his hips as his Master slid Charles’s slacks down. Wordlessly, his Master directed him towards the bed and onto his back. As his Master prepared him, he felt the words he had spoken to his Master that first night tumble from his lips: promises of eternal, reverent devotion, to serve him and only him. Anything. Everything. Always. 

The words fell into a whimper as his Master slowly wrapped his hands around his neck. It turned into a helpless gasp as they tightened and his Master thrust into him. Charles’s hands flew up to try and pry his Master’s hands off in an fruitless, animal attempt to open up his airway. Heedless to the unintentional token of disobedience, his Master set a vigorous, pitiless pace. Unable to speak for lack of air, Charles began chanting his mantra of allegiance in his mind. 

_Master, I live for you. Your pleasure. Your purpose. Even beyond the bounds of death._

_If you will only have me._

_Master…_

~~~****~~~

His Master had already gone by the time he woke in the morning. Charles must have blacked out again. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence; the gulf between his Master’s strength and his own was particularly obvious when they were in bed. It would explain why he didn’t remember Master leaving, or either of them finishing during their time together. Still, it wasn’t a big deal. He rarely stayed for long afterwards, sometimes leaving right after the fact. 

Soon he would receive his orders. He need only wait. He hadn’t been abandoned. Thank God. Thank God. 

Sore, he hefted himself out of bed and put on a robe to ward against the cold that always seemed to creep through the house in the mornings. He needed a shower and some coffee. Badly.

He spied himself in the bathroom mirror and let out a hiss of surprised displeasure at what he saw. Christ, but he looked a mess. Brown stubbly beard grew at odd lengths across his chin, save for the odd spots where age hand taken its toll and left it stark white. Dark half-moons from stress and lack of sleep wreathed the underside of both his eyes. His hair was a disheveled, greasy mess. He looked ready to start raving about the apocalypse. 

Peeling back his robe revealed the deep purple bruises in the unmistakable shape of the fingers that had wreathed his sorry throat the night before. Ah, so his Master had seen fit to leave him a memento of last night’s festivities. He felt honored, as always. Still, they’d likely be quite visible, even with a suit on. And they were much too dark and his skin much too light for makeup to do any good. Hmph. Well, it wouldn’t do for people to see such things. None of it would harm his Master, of course.. But, it was best to keep up appearances, keep certain inconvenient questions from being asked.

He would just stay in until they faded. Besides, it would be best to be home in case his Master decided to call on him again. Which he would, of course. He had done well the night before, hadn’t he? He hadn’t done anything to displease him. And it wouldn’t do to have Master call upon him and be gone on some silly errand. He could have his groceries or anything else he needed delivered. Maybe give some of the books in the library a second go, or take a look at some of his movies. 

He carefully hung his robe on the hook on the back of his bathroom door and stepped into the shower. The water was perfect: stinging, scalding hot, and soothing. Relaxed, he felt his mind wander as he stood beneath the spray. 

He had been discovered at one of his father’s self-serving little soirées. Even as a child, he had hated them. Champagne, caviar, music, and fine china all perfectly arranged to boost his father’s crippled political career. But that night one guest had stood out amongst the crowd, an older man over a head taller than his father. He seemed regal, the Lord of a kingdom that had been won with steel and blood. Charles watched the man and his father converse from across the room, fascinated. His father stole skittering glances at the man, shoulders hunched. The other man stood upright, utterly confident. Young Charles was again reminded of a king: one whose royal mystique was so powerful that he had turned another man’s house into his castle simply by being there.

Charles still remembered the flutter of his pulse as the man approached; the thrill that one such as him would notice a pathetic little mousy, bookish boy. A few whispered words in his young ear, and his life had been changed forever. He still remembered the sweet pain of that night, his whispered words of loyalty. He awoke the next morning to find the man gone. He remembered being sure that his father would be disgusted with him for what he had done, furious. He might even be disowned. 

But his father’s rage had never fallen on his head. In fact, after that night he saw very little of his father, who stayed in his office most of the time. Charles realized that this was his Master’s way of protecting what was his. He felt a crushing sense of awe that even when his Master was no longer physically there, his power still held sway over the household. He felt pride swell in his chest that he was the one whom his Master wanted. 

Charles joined a certain paramilitary academy under his Master’s direction a few weeks later. Master had called it a place where the soldiers who would raise his new kingdom were trained. Once there, no one questioned the older man’s coming and going into the dormitory at odd hours, the possessive bruises around Charles’s throat the mornings after, or even when he was unable to get out of bed on some days. At least, not for long.

On one occasion, one of the other boys began calling Charles a certain word behind his back, where he thought that Charles wouldn’t be able to hear and that Master wouldn’t know. Emboldened, the other boys took up the taunt. Things began to escalate, and Charles was forced to fight for his personal honor more than once.

It all came to a very sudden stop soon after the first boy’s body was discovered. He lay with his limbs twisted like a broken, discarded marionette in front of the dormitories. If there was a funeral, neither Charles nor any of the other boys were invited to it. After that, none of the other boys teased him. Or spoke to him much at all, in fact. Charles didn’t let it bother him. In taunting him, they were questioning their own Master’s actions and so deserved the same fate as their ringleader. They were unworthy. 

Sometime after he had gotten settled at the academy he received a letter from his father. The first and last of its kind, it said that the election was going better than expected, and that if Charles ever needed to ‘talk’ he would be more than willing to listen. It asked if everything was all right. Charles remembered frowning over the words as the other boys caroused around him. Talk? The man had had precious little to say to him ever since he could remember. Whatever could he think that they would have to talk about now? Father was going to get the respect and adulation he had always wanted, and Charles had his Master. Everyone was happy. 

Still, he didn’t have time to puzzle over it for long.

He had a purpose to serve.


End file.
